Wrote this short chapter in March this year at the public library in Ogden, Utah, watching huge fluffy snowflakes fall. This is not exactly a story. It's not finished, and it doesn't have anywhere to live. I just came across it again while sorting my folders for next year.

In the new year, I am planning to complete one short story each month. My friend Kyle said he was going to, so I thought, "yeah that'll work for me, too." One time, Kyle expressed an interest in sharing his work here, and though I'm sure it was a fleeting thought, I still hold out hope for that day when you all get to read the work of Kyle, too. (whadya say, kyle??) But for now, I'm just scattering crumbs to clean out the old dusty short story folder.

I am who I want to be.

And I have everything I need.

There’s a bus coming for us this morning. Annie assures me that every ten minutes, there will be bus. She blows out a breath that thickens in the air in front of her face.

Me, I am Clarissa, and I am starting again. At the curtain call of my last piano recital, I definitively walked away from the instrument forever. I cannot touch a piano anymore. Strange, because I learned to play studiously, almost religiously, over ten years. I gave my life to it and was rewarded by its beauty. Maybe it became too predictable, like the pattern boxed me in. I have this hunch there is more of me to discover. Annie enthusiastically agrees.

So here begins a new life. The bus will take me to it.

Annie sings, “Here it co-omes!”

With a heavy sigh, it rolls up in front of our feet, the electrically-powered city bus ushering around a handful of city people. Their absent faces signal the accepted silent etiquette. We hurry in to find two open seats together. Within a few seconds, the doors close just as suddenly as they opened, and we settle in for a city ride.

The sun streams in through the windows. Annie’s face is thankfully spared from its blinding power by the tip of a man’s hat, but as long as we move in this direction, my face is illumined and all the world is removed in the glow. I close my eyes and soak it in, thinking of myself as a happy amphibian on a glistening rock, a frog on a lily pad. The morning is when I am most naturally thankful. I tune in to the frequency of the sun’s promise for this new day. No one stirs or speaks, coughs or sniffs, whines or plans.

I have this magic trick that I can do. Me, Clarissa. I can stop time every now and then. I used to accomplish it with the help of my magic wand, just kidding, I mean my piano. And though that method is still technically available to me, I am beginning to understand new ways to slip in and out of time. For example: reading a book, climbing a tree, inspecting a crawling thing. As this moment elongates into ribbons of light, I realize I can add “riding a bus” to the list.

The thing is, it’s only magic to me. It effects no change, no consequences. Not anymore. With the stage, lights, music and applause, I could make a performance of it, and in doing so, suspend time for a whole room, make an evening ascend and descend by the touch of my fingertips. Only, it couldn’t last forever. The problems began when my fingertips lost their grip, began to slip. This was years ago, and I ignored it, until my final recital.

Annie suddenly digs her elbow into my ribs. “C’mon, we’re here.”

The bus halts. The people sway. Time resumes its marching progress.

I step out next to Annie and take in the buildings on the street. She points to a dark window above our heads. “That’s the restaurant I worked in for a while, you wanna go up really quick?” With a few determined steps, she’s already luring me into sight-seeing her past life. “Let’s go. We can sample the olive oil! There’s like so many flavors.”

So here we go, into my new life, to sample the olive oil!